Predisposed . . . to be Underwhelmed

Off to the airport.  To my right, a construction site, of course.  It’s huge.  It is nearly done.  It comprises the empty honeycomb of ten-thousand tomorrows.  But till now it only holds the stories of those who assembled the skeleton.  It’s an odd construction site, because I am fully aware, that it will be part of my life in the future.  I’ll make decisions every week, I’m sure, that will involve going there, not going there, reckoning with this odd ribbing.

A half full glass might suggest that it would hold a myriad of new restaurants.  They’re will be slicker shops and better places to get the things I’d otherwise have to travel for.  I am predisposed though, to be underwhelmed.  It will be a buffed and polished version of yesterdays dream mall across the street.  Anything distinct, useful or distinguished within will be only a matter of random happenstance. 

It isn’t dark yet, but, as Dylan says, it’s getting there. It will be dark by the time I get to the airport.  I don’t really care.  The light plays tricks on me where I feel like I should still be at home rather than racing along.  Once it’s dark, we’re forgiven for the day.

At the airport, I find that I’ll be stuck with a middle seat, once again.  To the victors, who bother to show up at check-in two plus hours before hand, yes to these folks go the spoils.  Passing through the evening’s security check I gauge the lines and head left.  Oh dear, someone who must be a pop star is standing in line.  He is utterly plane and undistinguished.  He oozes the magnetism of a brick. Girls with cameras are swarming him.  The security guards have come to steward him off to some place more discrete.  A phalanx of young ladies with long hair, sneakers and cameras follow along behind.   Long live Beatlemania!